Orientation, part 11

Karen called to let me know that her shipment would be arriving on Thursday, so we worked out a time for me to show up. I found the townhouse easily enough, just about five minutes away from my house. Kathleen, the baby, was fussy the whole morning, so I spent most of my time trying to jolly her along while Karen did the bulk of the unpacking. We talked as she worked.

“We have a house in Fairfax, Virginia,” she said, “but this isn’t our first posting abroad. Rich works for the State Department as a terrorism expert. We spent two years in Honduras.”

“What does a terrorism expert do?” I asked.

“Well, here in Spain he’s supposed to be a liaison with the local police,” Karen said. “So far that means he’s taken a couple of police chiefs out fishing, and they take him out for drinks and tapas.”

“Sounds pretty good,” I said, laughing.

“Really, you should let him take you out for tapas,” she said. “He knows all the good places already. That would be a thank-you for your help today, I think! The four of us should really do that,” she declared. I agreed happily.

* * *

I went to the Newcomers Club coffee the next Tuesday. The hostess, whose husband was some kind of missionary from the U.S., had a huge house in Aravaca, nowhere near Karen’s. The small yard was surrounded by a high fence, like most Spanish houses, but inside the fence were spectacular plantings. The landscaping was perfect.

The interior rooms were large and airy, with honey-colored parquet floors and white walls. Large plate-glass windows looked onto the beautiful garden.

About thirty women were there, and though I didn’t know anyone, I found that it was easy enough to make conversation. Some of the ladies had been in Spain for several years, and some were new like me. I thought I recognized a couple of mothers from the American School, so I introduced myself. One of the women, a Brazilian with very long black hair, was Clarice Scarritt. We found that Julie was in her daughter Natalie’s class. The other, a pretty South African, had a daughter, Rosanne, in that class, too. The mother’s name was Huibrecht Kruger—“Hy-brekt,” most people seemed to call her.

“What kind of name is that?” I asked.

“It’s actually Flemish,” she said. “We are Afrikaners, but my family originally came from Belgium, not from Holland.” She gave me a quick lesson in the correct Flemish pronunciation of her name—“Heh-bresht.” Her accent was musical, and she was stunningly dressed, with striking jewelry.

But I was thinking: South African? What’s wrong with you people? I thought apartheid was the worst thing I had ever heard of.

“Huibrecht is an artist,” Clarice said. “She has a business here painting ostrich eggs.”

“You’re kidding!” I said. “How did you ever get into that?”

“Well, my husband is a diplomat for South Africa,” she said, “and we’ve lived in many countries—Peru, Brazil, Mali and Malawi. I have to have a little portable business to make some extra money, so I started painting African designs on ostrich eggs.”

“How do you choose your designs?” I asked.

“Most of them are taken from nature,” she said. “We Africans generally appreciate our natural surroundings, because our homeland is so beautiful.”

And I was thinking: We Africans? Don’t you know you’re English?

So it was probably a good thing that the conversation turned to learning Spanish, because I was at risk for exposing my ignorance and judgmentalism. Huibrecht, who had moved to Húmera with her family the previous February, mentioned that she had signed up for the fall semester at a little language school right in Aravaca. The class was to meet three mornings a week, while the kids were conveniently at school. Thinking again of Eileen, and wanting to know Huibrecht better despite my bad attitude, I took the name and number of the language school.